


Sparrow's Odyssey

by piratemistress



Category: Pirates of the Caribbean (Movies), Pirates of the Caribbean: The Curse of the Black Pearl (2003)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2006-08-09
Updated: 2006-08-09
Packaged: 2018-04-11 10:27:40
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 12,366
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4431755
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/piratemistress/pseuds/piratemistress
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Between the evening bottle of rum and the morning scent of smoke lies the real story of Rum-Runners’ Island. Canon-friendly through Pirates 2: DMC. Many, many apologies to Homer. If you hated the Odyssey in high school, trust me, you've never seen it like this.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Book I: The Grace of the Witch

Captain Jack Sparrow felt the warmth of the sand at his back as he reclined on the beach. In his hand he held a crude bottle of rum - half empty - and his feet were bare, allowing him to crunch the sand between his toes. It was probably the only sensation of being on land that he truly adored. That, and being able to take a piss without the chamber pot moving on the floor with the motion of the ship.  
  
He could close his eyes to the night and go to sleep, now. He'd had enough to drink to quell the fears being marooned on the island had dredged up in him. And more often than not, he let people see him drink so that when he behaved normally, it was _attributed_ to the rum, instead of a half-cooked brain. Of which perhaps he was, in fact, possessed, since he was seriously considering going to sleep before he'd made even a half-hearted attempt to seduce Elizabeth Swann.  
  
Especially since there were two other men - that he knew of - who would probably line up to sacrifice their right arms to be in his shoes - well, not that he was wearing any, so, position - at the moment. Totally alone, on a tropical island, by a fire, with a plentiful supply of booze and a half-naked woman. Girl.   
  
Virgin.  
  
Better to go to sleep, he decided.   
  
“Jack?” he heard her say softly. The gentle word caressed him like a warm breeze, and he tried to remember if she'd called him by his first name before. He liked it, liked the musical timbre of her voice. Say it again, he silently pleaded.  
  
“Jack?” Yes. As good as the first time. Perhaps better.  
  
“That's Captain Sparrow to you. _Miss_ Swann.” He peered at her through lowered lids, secretly gratified to be able to retaliate for her insistence that he not use her first name. Then again, being snippy was just her way of trying to empower herself. And since she was stranded on a desert island with an infamous pirate, he didn't blame her for being defensive. But he was going to goad her, anyway, because it pleased him.   
  
She narrowed her eyes, and he contained a smile. “Jack,” she continued pointedly. “Are you going to sleep?”  
  
“Unless there's something further you require. _Elizabeth_.” And he discovered he liked the sound of her name on his lips, how he could wrap his tongue around the regal syllables, and soften them until they melted... all right, he _had_ drunk more rum than he thought.  
  
So perhaps he shouldn't look at her too closely, since she was bathed in firelight and getting awfully friendly with that bottle of rum, judging by how her pale, soft, long-fingered hands wrapped around it snugly, sliding up and down as she lifted it to her lips... and something answered that motion deep in his belly, and he agreed that yes, he definitely shouldn't look at her too closely. Let her stay a pretty, slightly blurry virgin on the other side of the fire.  
  
Except now she was on _his_ side of the fire - when had that happened? - and she was leaning over him, blocking out the night with her inquisitive expression and hair that couldn't seem to decide on a color, and she was less blurry but more pretty up close, but definitely still a virgin, and Jack Sparrow didn't do virgins. Too tricky. Too likely to result in injury - to him.  
  
“What?” he said sharply.  
  
“Jack, I...” and she trailed off, her eyes falling on the rum, and the fire, before turning back to his face. “I'm not tired.”  
  
“Drink more,” he retorted, and shut his eyes. To his surprise he heard the slosh of the bottle, and while he knew she had been pretending to drink at least half the times she swigged, that had sounded real. And the level of the bottle had gone from full in the late afternoon to half-empty just after dark, and for a bit of a girl who'd never had rum before, that must have been an awful lot, he reckoned. In fact... she must be sloshed.  
  
“Don't go to sleep yet. We could sing more songs,” he heard her say. Was that a hint of pleading in her voice? She's scared, he suddenly realized. She wants me to comfort her, so she won't be alone with her fears.  
  
But the kind of comfort he would usually consider under the circumstances was most decidedly out of the question. Even if her delectably full breasts - how old _was_ she? Older than he originally thought - were nearly spilling out of that white part-of-a-dress that laced up the sleeves and down the bodice and everywhere begged him to slide his fingers through and _un_ -lace it... what had she said?  
  
“'M sorry,” he said, hearing the slur of his words. “No more songs tonight. Be a good girl and toddle off to bed. Well, sand. Whatever you prefer.”  
  
She propped an elbow in the sand next to him, and rested her chin upon it, looking down at him with a new light in her eyes. “Perhaps you'd like to assist me with that.”  
  
His eyes shot open. She couldn't know what she was implying, she was so naive, so innocent... “Come again?”  
  
“Put me to bed, as it were.”  
“Put you...” He swallowed a dry lump in his throat, and lifted the bottle to drink again.  
  
“Yes.” Her tone began to grow impatient, as though she were talking to a recalcitrant child. “Won't you do something for me?”  
  
He screwed his eyes shut, repeating to himself, She doesn't know. She doesn't mean it. She's talking about... what is she talking about?  
  
“What are you talking about?”  
  
“I want you to tell me a story.”  
  
His breath escaped in a controlled, hot breath. A story. She wanted a story. Just like a little girl. Shame, and guilt, rushed in to replace the unusually sudden flare of lust that had nearly blown his capacity for reasoning to smithereens. He found to be guilt and shame unpleasant and useless emotions, usually, and so they were also often fleeting. His ability to speak returned.  
  
“A story? What kind of story would amuse you, Miss Swann?” _Elizabeth_.  
  
“I want a story of piracy,” she said, and he glanced over to see a smile split her full, pouting lips. “Tell me a story about you. One that's not how you escaped from a desert island by getting drunk.”  
  
“And what benefit is there, for me, in the telling of this tale?”  
  
“What do you mean?” She sounded perplexed.  
  
“I mean,” and he rolled onto his side to face her, noticing with another slight twinge of alarm that they were only separated by about a foot of sand - not the most stalwart of defenses. “What's in it for me?”  
  
She narrowed her eyes again. “Always looking to suit yourself, aren't you, Jack?”  
  
“It's what I do best, love. Unless, of course, there's a lady involved. I do make certain allowances in that case.” And he knew she wouldn't, couldn't understand what he meant, and that somehow irked him. Someone should show her...  
  
“All right, name your price.”  
  
His price. Well, that was a devil of a question, because it would require him to decide on what it was he actually wanted. The obvious sprang to mind, and seemed ready to spring to - no, that wouldn't do at all. Unless...  
  
“The conditions of the story are these. I'll tell it, but you've got to assist.”  
  
“Assist... how?”  
“At a certain point, you'll be asked to fill a role in the tale, you know? Act it out. Ever been to the theater, Elizabeth?”  
  
“Why... yes.”  
  
“Ever wanted to try it out?”  
  
“It's not proper for a lady of my station.”  
  
“Well, there's no one to watch you, here.” He sat up, then, and she sat up as well, looking uncomfortable with the idea of reclining in front of him. “So you get to play a little part.”  
  
“I'll not have you taking liberties with me, Captain Sparrow,” she declared in a clipped tone.  
  
Oh, so now we're back to Captain Sparrow. One step forward, two steps back. “I wouldn't think of putting you in a _compromisin_ ' position, if that's what you mean. Even though - as I'm sure you've noticed - we're alone, it's night, and you are, technically, compromised.”  
  
“Not going to offer for me out of propriety, are you, Jack?” she said, and the teasing fire was back in her eyes.  
  
“An enchanting idea, to be sure. So have we an agreement?”  
  
“For the story?”  
  
“I meant, for your hand. In marriage.” But when he said the words, he detected the spark of an idea.  
  
“Will you stop teasing?”  
  
“Very unlikely. Of course, the bloody story.”  
  
She hesitated, tilting her head to one side as she looked at him carefully, and he couldn't help feeling he was being undressed. Or perhaps just assessed.  
  
“Look, you have my word, all right? I won't touch you. Without your express permission. All I require for the story is the use of your hands.”  
  
“My hands?” she echoed, looking at the appendages in question as though she'd never noticed them before.  
  
“That's all.”   
  
“Well, I suppose there's no harm in that,” she conceded, nonetheless looking at him warily. He began to perceive that beneath the missish defenses was a very smart girl. Smarter than he'd originally thought. Which could bode well for his plan of the evening; or it could ruin everything. There was only one way to find out...  
  
“Well, then, Miss Swann, shall I begin?” He sat back and raised his knees in front of him so that he could dig his toes into the sand. She settled back on her hips, her hands planted behind her, and he was pleased to note she seemed relaxed. The rum sat unattended next to her.  
  
“This story takes place a long time ago. Before you were born, even.”  
  
“You're not _that_ old, Jack.”   
  
He waited. She waited, wetting her lips. “Are you?”  
  
“Are you going to interrupt, constantly, or can you stow it until I've at least _begun_ the story?”  
  
“Sorry. I'm sorry. Do go on.”  
  
“As I said, a long time ago. Far away from here. In a different sea- the Aegean, 's matter of fact.” He waved his bottle of rum in a grand, circular gesture as he spoke.  
  
“You've sailed to the Mediterranean?”   
  
He picked up the bottle of rum next to her and held it out to her. “New condition. For every time you interrupt - since you asked, no, _begged_ me to tell you a story, you are going to take a drink of rum. And either I'll finish telling the tale or you'll pass out inebriated, but either way, I'll get some peace. Savvy?”  
  
“I apologize.”  
  
“Drink.”  
  
She drank. “Please go on.”  
  
“As I was saying, the Aegean. Me and my crew-“ She opened her mouth, and he could tell she itched to say, 'my crew and I,' but she closed her mouth again and raised her brows, and he thought to himself that she was, in fact, a smart girl. “We were blown off course by a storm. A bad one. We were at sea for weeks, with barely any supplies. Lads keeling over left an' right. And then one morning we saw land, an' a harbor, and we about went mad with delight.”  
  
“So that's when you went mad,” she inserted wryly, and he saw the glint in her eyes as she lifted the bottle to her lips and took a sip, never taking her eyes off of him. She must have decided that one was worth it, he concluded. Fine.  
  
“The harbor. We dropped anchor, and about half my crew - the rowdier, less intelligent half - wanted to immediately take a boat and go ashore to explore. But I said, 'Let's wait. We don't know what's out there, savvy? Could be cannibals, ghosts, giant snakes, trolls - who knows?' Then one of 'em - Ragetti, 's a matter of fact - said he saw smoke in the distance - he still had two eyes, then - and that meant a human being and hospitality. I still demurred, but they wouldn't listen to me, and off they went. And we didn't hear anything until late that afternoon.”  
  
He crossed his legs in front of him, and settled in the sand. He was feeling a little less woozy, now, as he'd had some time to breathe and think. It made him more aware of his surroundings, which was both good and bad, since the night air helped to clear his head, but it seemed now that his every nerve ending was trained on his companion. Her eyes. Her skin. Her breath as it exited her lips.  
  
“So come the afternoon, an' who comes running back to the ship looking distraught, but Ragetti. And he's a right mess - blubbering and weeping so as we can hardly make any sense at all of what he's saying. Finally we get it out of him that they climbed a hill and went through the forest, and they came to a house. And they heard singing, beautiful singing. It enthalled them, and they couldn't resist going closer. And Ragetti hung back, because he was afraid, but then a beautiful lady had opened the door, and invited all of them inside, and only he stayed behind.”  
  
He paused and tilted his head, remembering how Elizabeth had sounded when she sang the pirate song, not when they'd run around the fire like lunatics, but earlier, when she'd only sung one line, and it had enchanted him...  
  
“And then none of them came out. So Ragetti come back to the ship to tell us something evil befell the others, and begged me to set sail right away, from that place. But I wouldn't, of course, and I insisted he lead me back the way they had gone. But he fell to weeping again and I took pity on him and left him on the ship, seeing nothing for it but to go, meself. And that's what I did.”  
  
Elizabeth, he saw, was watching him intently, her brown eyes wide with interest. It pleased him to know he had her full attention, and he lifted his bottle to take a celebratory sip of rum before continuing.  
  
“So I left the ship and climbed up through the woods. And I noted how strange it all was, how there were all manner of creatures and crawlies about-“ He paused, looking at the trees, and around on either side of them, and was pleased to see Elizabeth gather her knees together and pull the folds of her skirt a little more tightly around her. “-but I kept going. When all of a sudden, I met a boy in the wood.”  
  
“How old a boy?” asked Elizabeth, watching him intently.  
  
“I was getting to that.” He indicated with his eyes that she should drink. She sighed, and lifted the bottle to her lips with a roll of her eyes.  
  
“A young boy, who was first beginning to sprout hair on his upper lip. You may picture him as dear Will, if you like.”  
  
“Will's not a boy!”  
“Well, he must have been at some point, unless he sprang fully formed from his mother's head.”  
  
She furrowed her brows at Jack, who scoffed and continued.  
  
“Didn't you know Will as a boy in short pants? Didn't you meet him when you were younger, or was that a fantasy he's concocted since he dreams of marrying you?”  
  
He saw from the look in her eyes that it was true, and she looked down with a shy smile, before turning her eyes back to him. Glinting again.   
  
“Having a naughty thought, are you?”  
  
“Of course not, I was just fondly remembering the day Will and I met. But don't fault me for interrupting, and I am now picturing a young Will encountering you - so much the worse for him - in a forest in the middle of the Aegean.”  
  
He ignored the barb and looked thoughtfully upward, as he mentally re-created the scene. “Yes. So I met this boy, who said, 'Avast!' and sounded awfully silly. But I stopped to listen to him anyway, and I noticed something odd- that he spoke in rhyme.”  
  
“What did he say?”  
  
“Uh... let me see if I can remember. _Look out, you sorry sack of wine, your men have all been turned into swine_. Perhaps that was it.”  
  
“Not exactly poetic.”  
  
“Like I said - Will.” His mouth felt dry, and he took another sip of rum. “Anyway, I was rather surprised - as you can imagine - and I asked, by whom? And the boy replied...” He stalled as he tried to piece together a rhyme, failing miserably. Why couldn't he have just left out the rhyming part? Finally he settled upon something and recited it: “ _Never fear, your scrape can be fixed in a stitch; all you've to do is seduce the-_ “  
  
“Jack!”  
  
“ - _witch_ ,” he finished with a sly grin. “Drink up, me girl.”  
  
She squinted and her upper lip wrinkled in annoyance as she threw back the bottle of rum again. He noticed the liquid level had continued to deplete. Things weren't turning out so badly after all, he thought.   
  
“And the last thing he said was, _She fooled all your men with a drug in their wine; but this magic herb will protect you just fine_.” Jack leaned toward Elizabeth, then, sidling closer and reaching behind her. He was inordinately pleased to see her lips part and her breathing quicken, and she looked back and forth from his face to his moving arm as he closed the distance between them.  
  
“Jack,” she breathed, and he saw her pupils enlarge as he got very close to her face. “What are you doing... you promised...” and then he watched her eyes flutter closed and she raised her chin marginally to bring her lips closer to his.  
  
Yes, much better - or worse - than he'd originally thought. She was ripe for the picking already, waiting for him to kiss her. And he leaned in closer to her face, examining every bit of it that he could see in the firelight, but held himself away by about an inch, even though every nerve in his body was screaming at him to move in and kiss her. She'd be his. But while shame and guilt were not virtues of which Jack Sparrow made use, patience was. And often. So he waited there, feeling her warm breath almost against his lips, as he reached around her to pluck something off the ground.  
  
She opened her eyes. He had moved away, and was holding out a small tuft of grass. “It's my magic herb. Going to protect me from the witch's spell.”  
  
She blinked at him, and he could see drowsy desire giving way to anger. Oh ho, she was not going to forget _that_. The nerve of him, to almost kiss her. He knew for a fact she was madder that he hadn't than she would be if he had. He smiled.  
  
“Now, here's where you come in, Elizabeth.”  
  
“What do you mean?” she said sharply. He surmised she was still smarting from the almost-kiss.  
  
“You're the witch in this story - in case you hadn't guessed.”  
  
“Am I?”  
  
“Yes. And you'll need to start acting the part, now, love.” He watched as she wet her lips.  
  
“What do I do?”  
  
“All right. First, when I came to her house, she welcomed me in, and offered me a seat. With a nice footrest. Find me one, won't you?”  
  
Elizabeth blinked at him. “A footrest? Here?”  
  
“Yes. Anything I can fit me feet on, will do. But I'm the guest in this story. _You're_ the hostess.”  
  
She sighed and glanced around them, looking confused and a little dejected, before spying a large piece of wood by the fire that they had not yet put on. Her features brightened and she leaned forward to reached it, rewarding Jack with another close-up view of her bosom, which practically burst from her dress. She sat back down and held it out to him.  
  
“Put it at my feet.”  
  
She did so, bending over to the sand. He raised his head slightly, just so he could see down the front of her dress... lovely. She looked back at him.  
  
“Now place my feet upon it.”  
  
“I'm not touching your dirty feet!”  
  
“Well, in the story, she also bathes them. Would you prefer to do that?” He heard her scoff, and saw her fold her arms across her chest. “Look, love, either you can hold up your end of the deal, or you can't. No hard feelings, either way.”  
  
She cast him a murderous look and leaned forward again, to where he had stretched his legs alongside the fire. He watched as she lifted one of his feet by the ankle, dropping it onto the piece of wood, before he could fully anticipate how her hand would feel, wrapped around his ankle a second time for the other foot. A light shudder coursed through him at her soft touch, which both tickled and soothed.  
  
“Very nice.”  
  
She took her seat again. “May I ask a question?”  
  
“It'll cost you.”   
  
Elizabeth took another swig, then continued. “The witch - was she beautiful?”  
  
Jack stared at her, watching the reflection of the firelight play across her face. “Oh, very.”  
  
“No warts? No blackened teeth? No knotted hair?”  
  
An image of Tia popped into Jack's brain, unbidden, and he watched as it melted away, into Elizabeth. “No, nothing like that.”  
  
“And so... even though you were trying to save your men, you had a duty... you didn't mind, you wanted... to seduce her?” Her voice became low and throaty toward the end of her sentence, and he could hear her almost trip over the word 'seduce', as if she'd never said it before. He wondered if she even really knew what it meant.  
  
“Oh, yes,” he breathed, never taking his eyes from her face. “I wanted to.”  
  
“Hm,” she said. “So what happened next?”  
  
“Next? Ah...” Jack tried to reel his mind in from the extremely naughty detour it had taken during that last exchange. “Next... she... poured me a drink. A drink she had drugged, with her magic.”  
  
Elizabeth held her bottle of rum out to him with a motion so quick the amber liquid sloshed forward and back several times. He looked at her through lowered lids, up her extended arm.  
  
“That won't do, I'm afraid. Not very hospitable.”  
  
“Well, we haven't got any cups, have we?”  
  
“No,” Jack said, forming the word delicately with his lips, drawing it out sadistically. He saw her eyebrows rise, knew he had piqued her interest.  
  
“Well, then how...” She closed her mouth abruptly. “I'll pour it in.”  
  
That would do for now. He inched closer again, and then leaned back so that his head fell in her lap, with the curve of her thigh supporting the base of his skull through his thick hair. He felt her jump a little at the intimate contact, and looked innocently up at her face. “You may pour.”  
  
“Captain Sparrow, I'm sure I'm entirely comfortable with...”  
  
“Are you going to pour, or not? Am I touching you? Will you quit worrying that I'm going to ravage you - because I'm _not_ \- and try to enjoy the bloody story? Hm?”  
  
She gave a little offended cough, and poured the rum. Right up his nose.  
  
He sputtered and sat bolt upright, wheezing. His entire nose burned, and he coughed and swallowed at the same time, gasping for breath. When he had gotten himself under control, he opened his eyes to glare at her murderously.  
  
“Well, she _is_ a witch, isn't she?” Elizabeth said in a dry tone.  
  
“Oh yes, she is,” Jack agreed, clearing his throat as he continued to shoot daggers at her with his eyes. “But she still has to _serve_ her guest a drink.”  
  
“Fine. Lay back then.”  
  
“Oh, I'm not falling for _that_ again. No, no.”  
  
“Well, what, then?”  
  
He reached out and took the bottle from her. “You're going to offer your guest a drink properly. Hold out your hands.” She did so, still looking at his face. He tilted the bottle and splashed the rum over her palms, generously, seeing that she closed her eyes for a longer blink than usual. So she was a sensual creature, too, his Elizabeth. So much the better. “Cup them,” he ordered.  
  
Her eyes flickered open as she realized what he meant to do. He regarded her, and she regarded him, in a silent challenge. He was daring her, and he also knew - or was reasonably sure - that she responded quite well to being dared. She didn't look away from his face as she held out her left palm and delicately placed her right into it.   
  
“Tightly, now,” he said. “Wouldn't want to spill a drop.” He turned his wrist to upend the bottle, pouring a tiny little puddle of rum into the center of her cupped hands. He then went down on one elbow and turned his head so that she could place her fingertips against his lips. She lifted her hands, and he opened his mouth to drink.  
  
The rum was warm, and trickled over his lips and into his beard, and he had to part his lips even more and use his tongue to catch some of it, and the backs of her fingers still rested there, and he brushed his lips and tongue against them, hearing her small intake of breath. That was nice, he thought, very nice indeed. “Another, if you please, Elizabeth-Witch.”  
  
“Well I can't pour into my own two hands, can I?” She sounded faintly out of breath. This was going very well.  
  
“Then use one, but be quick about it.”  
  
She poured a tiny amount into her right palm, he saw, and she gingerly brought it over to his mouth, shaking a little with the effort of holding it level. Or perhaps from nerves, or something else. The moment the side of her pinky touched his lower lip, he opened his mouth around her hand, as though it were a cup, and she started and the rum sloshed from her hand all over his mouth. He reached up and held her hand fast, before she could snatch it away, and he parted his lips to slide them across her palm, using his tongue to lap the rum from every crevasse. He heard her gasp - undoubtedly she had never felt the touch of a man's tongue anywhere on her body - and used his palm to press her fingers against his open mouth, sliding his tongue between them, up one finger, down the next, slowly, deliberately, until he reached her pinky, which he sucked into his mouth and held, for one moment, before releasing it. He opened his eyes to look at her.  
  
She was red in the face. No doubt ashamed of all the strange and yummy feelings he'd just unleashed in her virginal body. Her lips were parted and she breathed slowly, in, then out, as her hand retreated back to her lap. He watched as she tried to catch her breath, sort out what had just happened. Finally she met his eyes again. “More?” came the faintest whisper from her lips.  
  
Jack felt that whisper like a caress along the length of his body, including his rapidly hardening cock, which seemed to be urging him to forget the rum, forget the game, take her by the shoulders and kiss her senseless, and she would be his soon after... she was asking for it, now, she loved the feel of his mouth on her, and he would make sure he broadened her education to include all the places his mouth could feel delicious... but he took a deep breath and sighed, wanting to see how much she would offer him before he lost control completely.  
  
“Yes, please,” he said in as even a tone as he could muster. To his own ears, his voice sounded gravelly, full of sand. He saw she did away with the pretense of cupping entirely and simply splashed her entire hand with rum, the left one, this time, and held it in front of his mouth.  
  
He took each finger into his mouth, starting at the tip, sliding down to where it met her palm, nudging it with his teeth, laving it with his tongue, before sliding back and moving onto the next one. Then he opened his mouth wide and ran the flat part of his tongue across her palm, sucking just a little, tasting the rum and the slightly salty heat of her skin. When he reached the center of her palm he heard her moan, and it was almost his undoing, right then, but he closed his eyes and took a deep breath before placing a kiss there, languorously, and turning his head away.  
  
“Now _that's_ how I like to be served a drink,” he murmured, opening his eyes to look at her.   
  
“What... what...” He continued to watch as she swallowed, trying to form words. “What... happened after that?”  
  
“Well, after that... the witch thought she'd worked her magic on me, you see? And she came over closer - come closer, Elizabeth - and whispered...” She came, as though pulled on an invisible string, within reach of his arms. “...'now, you too shall be turned into swine, go rut among the others'.”  
  
She was so close he could smell her skin, hear her breathe.  
  
“But I drew my sword, then, since I wasn't under the power of her magic after all. Now, wait while I draw my sword...”  
  
“Jack!” she nearly squeaked in protest, and he grinned at her as he held up one finger, slowly, turning his wrist from side to side. Not so innocent after all, was she? She certainly did have naughty thoughts. Fuzzy and imaginary as they might be.  
  
He decided not to make her drink, that time, and instead laid his finger next to the white column of her exposed throat. “I laid my sword against her throat, letting her feel my blade.” He drew his fingertip up her neck, across under her jaw, watching the pulse pound at her throat. He caressed her with his finger, forward and back, up and down, and was pleased to see her muscles flex and her head roll slightly from side to side with his motions, just like a boat on gentle waves.  
  
“And then?” she said on a near-moan. “Did you seduce her? Or cut her throat?”  
  
“Well,” Jack said. “I suppose you can have whatever ending you prefer. Would you like to think I killed her, or that I bedded her?”  
  
“I'm sure _she_ would have preferred to be seduced.”  
  
“A brilliant conclusion.” He still stroked the skin of her throat. She turned her face in rhythm with his movements. “I _would_ have killed her. But she begged my forgiveness for the trick.”  
  
“Oh?”  
  
“Oh, yes. On her knees, in fact. Shall I show you?” And he got to his feet, then, and bent down to gently haul Elizabeth up by her upper arms, onto her knees. He fought his own arousal, then, because looking down at her and knowing what he wanted, what he _really_ wanted, she wasn't ready for... “She clasped my knees in supplication. Do you know how to... supplicate?”  
  
She peered up at him through narrowed eyes, and wrapped her arms around the backs of his knees. “Even if I did, I somehow think it would violate our terms, Captain Sparrow.”  
  
“Pity. Well, what are they teaching you in church these days, if not proper supplication?” He looked down at her in the firelight, her face inches from his swollen member inside his breeches, but she seemed none the wiser as she looked back up at him, and it occurred to him that she really _did_ trust him, and perhaps he ought to end this, now, before it went entirely too far...  
  
“What did she say, then?” Elizabeth asked, still hugging Jack around the knees.  
  
“She said... she said...” Jack could no longer think with her kneeling in front of him like that, trying like hell to banish all the nasty thoughts in the universe that were descending upon him with alarming speed. He couldn't take her... couldn't ruin her... the Commodore would kill him, if Will didn't do it first. But most of all, he _had_ given her his word, and she had given him her trust, and surprised as he was to realize it, he actually cared about that. He took a deep, slow breath, and sighed. “She said...she said - forgive me, I'm paraphrasing - 'Who the bloody hell are you, and where did you come from, and why aren't you falling off your chair because I put enough happy juice in your rum to knock a ten-foot-sailor flat, and oh! You must be Captain Jack Sparrow, on the ship with the black sails, as was revealed to me by the gods. Don't be angry, love, and let's get to know each other better in the bedroom, shall we?' Something like that.”  
  
“And then what did _you_ say?”   
  
He looked down at Elizabeth, who had sat back on her knees, her hands dropped to her sides, and she looked at him with a certain amount of curiosity, but also hunger. Hunger. For him. He knew it, he could sense it, smell it, almost taste it... she would be so easy to...and his control snapped, and he got down to his knees, then, and reached out to draw her against him, and he knew he had just broken the rule but she didn't protest at all. Her face was now inches from his, still regarding him curiously. “Then I didn't say anything, because I picked her up and carried her to her bed...” He reached out and scooped Elizabeth up, drawing her feet out from beneath her knees, and her arms came up to wrap around his neck. “...and I lay her down...” He put her back down, again, on her back, her legs extended out toward the fire. “... and I fell on top of her...” Jack leaned over her chest, feeling his weight press her down into the sand. “...and I kissed her.”  
  
He lowered his mouth to hers, needing to kiss her, needing to feel her warm, wet mouth against his, needing to taste her, desperately. But when his lips made contact, they were touching something far too hot and flat and he realized she had placed her hand over her mouth. And so he kissed that, as ardently as he would have kissed her lips, brushing kisses against her hand from both sides of his mouth, his tongue darting out to taste the salt of her skin, and he heard her moan on the other side of her hand.  
  
Then he felt her pushing at his shoulder, and he thought, Bloody hell, I've just ruined the whole thing and I didn't even get a single kiss. He sat up, pulling his lips away from her hand, and looked down to see her face was flushed with a mixture of emotions: desire...good. Exhilaration... also good. And anger...not good. Really not good.  



	2. Book II: The Princess at the River

Jack looked at her and thought fast, trying to come up with a way to avert disaster. He couldn't yet admit that he really _was_ trying to seduce her.   
  
“I'm sorry, love, I got a little carried away. But I didn't touch anything other than your hands, which you did, conveniently, employ to correct my blunder. Forgive me.” He put on his best contrite face.  
  
She propped herself up on her elbows, glaring at him fiercely. “That doesn't _begin_ to solve the problem, Captain Sparrow.”  
  
“I know, I've gone and done it. Go on.” He extended his wrists and stuck out his lower lip. “Turn me into a pig, then.”  
  
“There's no need. You _are_ a pig.”  
  
“Oh, is it so bad?”  
  
“First of all, you're a liar. I asked for one simple story about your past, and it's not even _true_.”  
  
“What do you mean? I wouldn't-“ but she ignored his gesture of innocence at his chest and charged forward.   
  
“Oh, please, Jack. I had several governesses and was tutored in Greek and Latin. I _know_ this story. It's Homer. Odysseus and Circe - it's famous.”  
  
“All right, so maybe I confused meself and good old Odysseus a little. Come on, both legendary sailors...quick-witted...” He leaned closer, smiling fiendishly. “...fine lovers.”  
  
She gave a cough of protest. “Oh, of _course_. Both liars. Scoundrels. Full of tricks. Of course, there were all the things you left _out_ of the story.”  
  
“Such as?”  
  
“Well, for one thing, Odysseus is _married_.”  
  
Jack blinked. “So?”  
  
“So as a female, I find it quite ironic that while Penelope, the man's faithful wife, sits at home waiting for him for twenty years, Odysseus is off cavorting around the Mediterranean.”  
  
“Cavorting?”  
  
“You know.”  
  
He grinned, showing a few gold teeth. “You mean, 'fucking'.”  
  
“Jack! I'll thank you not to - “  
  
“I'll thank you not to mince words, since we're forced to endure each other's company for the foreseeable future. When fucking's what you mean, better to just say it.”  
  
She gaped at him.  
  
“And you're right - he does fuck his way across the Aegean, or however you put it. But that's his prerogative. And he _does_ make it home to wifey by the end.”  
  
“So much the worse for _her_. Who knows what kind of venereal diseases _witches_ have?”  
  
“How do you know about...” and he trailed off, scratching his temple, thinking about his own past, and then shaking his head to clear it. “At any rate, doesn't it matter than the poor man's just lost, wandering the seas, looking for a little comfort? Hm?”  
  
She regarded him, the flames of the fire flickering in her eyes, and he found that he really wanted her to understand, so he continued.“Is it so bad that he seduces the witch, to free his men and be on his way home again?”  
  
“Oh! And you've got _that_ wrong, too.”  
  
“Why's that?”  
  
She sat up, then, fully, and looked him dead in the eye. “He doesn't seduce _her_. _She_ seduces _him_.”  
  
Jack felt his throat go dry. “Really?”  
  
“Of course. She forces him to share her bed, even though he doesn't want to. It says so right in the book. I remember reading it, even though my tutor tried to skip over those parts.”  
  
“No, you're thinking of the _other_ one. The goddess Calypso. She forces him. But Circe, he just wants to f-“  
  
“So bloody many, one loses track,” she interrupted. “Hardly a fair story, in my opinion. There's very little about Odysseus that I find admirable.” Her scathing glance up and down his body let Jack know exactly what she meant.  
  
And he felt dirty, suddenly. Dirtier than usual, dirtier than the sand they sat on. Because he _had_ been trying to seduce her, even though she was just a virgin and going to be married - to one man or another - and she trusted him, and he'd let her down. Then he realized what he was thinking, and couldn't believe himself. Jack Sparrow, guilty? Jack Sparrow, ashamed? No. Yes. But not for long.  
  
“Look, Odysseus wasn't so bad. I can think of at least one woman in the Odyssey he doesn't... cavort... with.”  
  
“Oh, only one?”  
  
“Yes.” Jack narrowed his eyes at her. “The young one. The _virgin_.”  
  
Elizabeth met his gaze, her cheeks coloring a pale pink. She said nothing.  
  
“The princess at the river. He's washed up, remember? Got nothing. Shipwrecked. Marooned. No crew to speak of. He hasn't even got any clothes, and he washes up on the riverbank, and _she's_ his only hope.”  
  
“I only sort of remember this part.”  
  
“Figures. You're so focused on all the f-“  
  
“Jack!”  
  
“Sorry. But I'm right. She takes pity on him and rescues him.”  
  
He watched as she swallowed, and turned her face toward the fire again. “Isn't...isn't she the one whose father is trying to make a proper match for her?”  
  
“Aye,” Jack said, leaning a little closer to Elizabeth. “Her father, the king, tries to give her away right then and there, while Odysseus is dining with them.” He saw Elizabeth furrow her brows pensively, and moved to recline beside her, similarly propped on his elbows.  
  
“Well, perhaps the princess didn't want him,” Elizabeth said, eyeing Jack warily.  
  
“Oh, she wants him all right. She catches him alone in the corridor of the palace. Makes him promise to always remember her, since he rescued her. Er... she rescued him.”  
  
“That doesn't mean she _wants_ him. The story doesn't say that.”  
  
“Oh, yes it does, love. It's between the lines. You've got to look there.” He cast his eyes over her face, and saw she was looking back at him, warmly, earnestly.   
  
“So what stops him?” she said.  
  
“Sorry?”  
  
“What stops him... from seducing her?”  
  
“Well, the princess - Nausikaa, was her name, I think - was very beautiful. As beautiful as a goddess. So naturally he would have wanted her.”  
  
“Naturally. But?”  
  
“But there's a bond between them, see? She's the only other kindred soul he meets in that godforsaken place, just when he's at the end of his rope, completely done for. He meets her and she saves him.”  
  
He paused, and Elizabeth was looking at him even more intently. Were those tears in her eyes? So perhaps she did understand what he was trying to say. “What does he say back to her, then, when they're alone and she approaches him?”  
  
Jack looked over at her, thinking how to phrase the sentence while watching the firelight shimmer in her hair, on her skin. “He tells her - he tells her that he'll always remember her, as fondly as a lovely goddess who had blessed him.”  
  
The silence of the night settled upon them, and the cracking of the fire was the only sound for several long minutes. Then Elizabeth spoke.  
  
“So... Odysseus goes on his way after that. And he never sees the princess again?”  
  
“Not the way Homer wrote it.”  
  
“That's rather sad. Since they had forged a bond, as you said.”  
  
“Quite. Although, as you've pointed out, she goes on to make a pretty, rich bride, and he goes on to bed loads of goddesses and sail the seas plenty before finding his way home to wifey.”  
  
“Jack...” He could sense her hesitation, tried to look at her sincerely, to quell her fear. “You still owe me a story.”  
  
He chuckled. “Back to that, are we?”  
  
“Just one story, before we go to sleep.”  
  
“All right, love. What'll it be?”  
  
“I want... I want the story that _you_ would have written.” He looked over at her, certain his eyes were smoldering. She continued. “I want to know - if you had written it, what would happen to the shipwrecked sailor, and the princess?”  
  
Jack felt desire begin to stir again, coiling low in his belly. “I don't know if that's a story for a lady's ear.”  
  
“I can accept it. I want you to tell it.” He looked at her, saw the honest determination in her eyes.  
  
“You'd better be sure. I'll impose the same conditions as last time - I promise not to touch you except for your hands, but you're going to act the part of the princess.” He waited for her answer, seeing the hesitation in her eyes. The question was... would she trust him?  
  
“All right,” she said a small voice. Back to the child, it was. Well, he would change that.  
  
“Sure?”  
  
“Yes.”  
  
“So,” and he rolled over onto his side, facing her, still propped on an elbow. “The lately shipwrecked sailor, and the princess. They meet in the corridor, alone. She begs him to remember her, and he tells her he'll think of her as a goddess. And then he remembers how she saved him and how much he's going to miss her, when he goes. And he wants to give her a gift, something that she can have for herself no matter who she ends up marrying or what happens after he leaves her island - which may be nothing, because they may never meet again.”  
  
Elizabeth's eyes danced, the same color as the rum in the firelight. “What does he give her?”  
  
“Well, it's something that he shows her. He turns her around and guides her back to her bedchamber, where they can be alone.” He saw Elizabeth's lips part, saw her take a nervous breath.  
  
He reached out and took her hands in both of his, warming her palms. Her fingers flexed around his and he squeezed them, firmly, but not so hard as to hurt her. Her hands moved in response. Oh, yes, she was a sensual creature. And she was going to find out how much delight her senses could bring her. He sat fully upright and pulled on her hands to indicate she should sit up, too, and they faced each other, cross-legged on the sand.  
  
“Once they're alone in her bedchamber, he takes her hands and puts them on him. You see, he knows she's curious about his body because he's seen her staring, and looking, and it's only natural that she should be, because she's a woman and he's a man.”  
  
Elizabeth regarded him for a moment, and he saw she was fighting to keep her gaze on his face, but she soon lost that battle and he watched her eyes fell to his parted collar, the exposed brown skin of his chest. He took her right hand and laid it on the crook of his shoulder, inside his shirt. He felt her fingers curl against his skin, and her thumb moved out to stroke along his clavicle. Before long she curved her fingers so that just the tips were against his skin, and she moved her arm of her own accord, painting an S pattern across his chest with the ends of her fingers. He closed his eyes and gave in to the sensation, having known it would be marvelous to have her touch him, but not knowing _how_...  
  
And then he felt her other hand on the side of his neck, sliding slowly up and down, the edge of her palm hot as she moved up to his ear and back down to his shoulder, several times. His head fell forward of its own accord, and he lifted his hands to part his shirt more, opening it all the way down to the scarf he had wrapped about his waist, untucking it and pulling it out.  
  
Her hands followed suit, gliding over his entire chest, exploring the scars on his right side gently between a few smooth fingers, making a wide series of arcs across his chest and through the bits of black hair that curled against his sun-bronzed skin. He bit his lip as she reached his stomach, still touching lightly. He was afraid to open his eyes, afraid to let her see how deeply her butterfly-light touch was affecting him. When she reached the waistband of his trousers, his hands shot out and wrapped around her wrists.  
  
“Does... does he like it, when the princess touches him?” said Elizabeth, and he could hear a throaty quality to her voice.  
  
“Very much,” he answered, his own voice thick, as he chanced a look at her through barely opened lids.   
  
“Does he want her... to touch him more?”  
  
“Oh, yes, he does.” Jack shrugged out of his shirt, then, and cast it over in front of the fire. He leaned toward her, reaching for her hands, again, and she pulled back her head, but only a little. “Relax, will you? I promised. Just your hands.”  
  
She nodded mutely, and allowed him to lift her hands to his shoulders, and he released one and lifted his mass of hair so she could slide her hands underneath it, and his breath caught as she began to stroke his upper back with her fingers, delicately. He was so focused on what she was doing that he didn't realize he'd come to rest his forehead on her shoulder, and she slid her palms down the rest of his back, which he was certain was covered with a fine sheen of sweat, now, both from the warmth of the fire and the exertion of holding himself back... he felt the middles of her fingers touch him individually, one after the other, as though she were playing the piano, and he wondered if that had been part of her proper education, too. And as she made her way down his back in two curving lines he fought to breathe, because the touch of a woman's hands on his back was something he had always found extremely erotic, perhaps because it often happened when he was on top of one, driving himself into her over and over and over... a low groan escaped his lips against the front of her shoulder, and he didn't know how much more of this he could take, how reliable his control and his promise really was.  
  
At that thought he raised his head, and opened his eyes. Her eyes were lively, very warm as they looked at him, and it occurred to him that all that rum might be taking its toll, finally, and that she might relax even more being drunk. Or else, the warmth in her eyes was a sort of feline satisfaction that came from witnessing the effect she had on him, of gaining a knowledge of her own power. Perhaps she was drunk on that, too.  
  
That was all right. But it was time to bring her to another level, beyond simply pleasing him and arousing her own curiosity about his body. And he didn't think he was flattering himself too much to think that she had actually enjoyed touching him, all the sinewy muscle and male flesh that he knew much be exotic and strange to her. He ran his tongue over his lips so that he could speak.  
  
“And so...” He had to clear his throat again, because he found speaking difficult. “...so after he puts the princess's hands on him, he wants to show her some things about herself, about her own body. But for that, he needs to undress her.”  
  
Her lips parted, and he saw her try to focus on him with her eyes. “Jack... you can't, I...”  
  
“I _won't_ touch. Only your hands. I swear. Swear on me mother's grave...” and then it was moot, because he'd been inching her dress up over her knees ever since he'd started speaking again, and while she debated he lifted it slowly over her hips, but there it caught, because she was sitting on the other side of it, so she'd have to cooperate of her own free will. But would she...  
  
She leaned back onto her elbows, then, her knees coming together as her feet slid in front of her on the sand. He wasted no time in grasping the hem and sliding it farther up, and she lifted her hips so he could slide it underneath, and then it was at her waist, and then her chest, and with a final push he dragged it over her ample breasts and up over her face. She had to lay on her back to raise her arms and allow it to be lifted over her head, and then she put her elbows back in the sand, and she was naked to his gaze. He dropped the dress beside her and told himself to breathe, to keep breathing, as he took in her nude form with his eyes.  
  
A goddess... yes, that was perfectly fitting, he concluded as he ran his eyes over her. Those beautiful breasts, jostled slightly by her breathing... round and lush and full, tipped with nipples the color of summer roses, large ones, that begged for him to lower his mouth to smell, to taste...the pale, creamy skin of her stomach and thighs, the thatch of curls between them that, like her tresses, were neither brown nor gold but somehow both or in between... the curve of her thigh and knee, down to her feet which now nestled shyly in the sand. He took a deep, shuddering breath and cursed himself for a fool, because he'd promised not to take her, and now, he didn't see how he couldn't, how could he not have her, not ever have her, because he needed her so desperately... and he wished that he'd just gone to sleep and told her to stuff her story, because he was in it, now, and deeply, too.  
  
“Jack, is the princess... is she... as beautiful, as Odysseus thought she'd be... does the sight of her... please him?”  
  
Jack's eyes snapped up to her face, and he thought he saw a hint of mischief in her eyes. Listen to her, fishing for compliments like a brazen hussy. Well, so be it.  
  
“She's the most beautiful thing he's ever seen, and that's saying a lot, because remember, he's seen witches and actual goddesses, and slave girls and sirens and a whole host of other things, too... but none of them can compare, can ever, _will_ ever compare, to the beauty of the princess in his eyes.” And he watched her chin lift and she smiled, a genuine smile, and he sensed that underneath the bold asking of her question was a real insecurity, a real ignorance of her own power as a woman, as a sexual being.  
  
“And so the gift he gives the princess is this: to realize that her body is a source of pleasure, and not something to be frightened of. Even though she's still got to be very careful, because there are lots of men in the world who aren't noble like Odysseus and who would love to get their hands on her just to satisfy themselves.”  
  
“How... does he? Show her this?” She sounded nervous again. And well she should be - he could take her right now. The only thing stopping him was her trust, and his promise.  



	3. Book III: The Princess and the Pirate

“Well, now that's a challenge worthy of Odysseus' talents, isn't it? Because he doesn't really want to ruin her for marriage, you know? And all the problems that come along with that.”  
  
“So what can we...what can they...do?”  
  
Jack reached out and took her left hand in his right, gently pinching her fingers between his. In his left he reached for the bottle of rum... nearly forgotten, beside her. He brought it over to her, meeting her eyes as they reflected the firelight. He lowered the bottle above her lips and she parted them, and he poured a small amount, just a little, between them, and splashed a bit over her rosy, full lips, watching as her tongue darted out to catch the errant drops. He raised her hand and brought her fingertips to her lips, and, grasping her index finger, moved the tip over and across her bottom lip, and then up over the top, catching a few beads of rum upon it. He watched as she rotated her face in time with his motion, as though pulled magnetically toward her own finger, which he held. He then leaned closer, inches from her face, and brought that finger of hers to his own lips, drawing it inside and sucking on it, using his tongue to lick every drop of rum from it.  
  
When she opened her eyes they seemed misty with longing. Yes, oh, yes.   
  
He tilted the bottle again and splashed some rum on her long, graceful neck, and lowered his mouth to lap it up, greedily, with his tongue without even thinking at all, but she made a sound in her throat that he felt against his lips, and he pulled away. “Sorry, that was just the rum,” he murmured against her skin. “I remember I promised.” And he held his mouth away from the wet spot he'd just made with the rum and his mouth, and breathed upon it, from the top of her neck to the bottom, and he was immensely pleased to hear a soft moan.  
  
He then splashed more down the center of her chest, and followed that with his mouth, breathing hotly against her skin, holding his lips away by a fraction of an inch. His every movement was controlled, restrained, and he knew she couldn't possibly know how much it was costing him to rein in his raging desire...  
  
His gaze fell to her magnificent breasts, and when he splashed the rum this time, he aimed for her right nipple, which had become taut in the night air. She gasped and her back arched a little. Now _this_... for this he needed something else. He took the hand he still held in his right and brought it up to her breast. Then he laid her own palm over her nipple and held it there, watching her breathing quicken and intensify, before he squeezed her hand and moved it back and forth over her own breast, eliciting another moan from her throat and even more painful throbbing in his deliciously spasming cock.  
  
The other one, next. He poured a tiny dribble of rum over her other nipple and bent his mouth to that one, exhaling upon it, gratified to watch it tighten into a hardened pebble instantly, and then he took the hand that was warm and sticky from her other breast and brought it to this one, taking the tips of her fingers and moving them in a slow, ever-narrowing circle from the edges of the pink to the center. When he reached it, he heard all her breath escape in a rush, and he knew she was going to be ready, so ready, for what he had in mind next.  
  
He poured the rum below her breasts so that it ran in a rivulet straight down the middle of her stomach, pooling in her navel, just reaching the top of her curls. He took her hand and pressed her fingertips to her sternum, and then dragged them downward in the path of the rum, holding her hand tightly, wanting her to know that he was dying to follow that path with his own hand, with his mouth, hell, with his cock, for that matter, but all of that was under the lock and key of his promise, and so he was squeezing her hand pretty hard as it made a slow, languorous path from her breasts down her belly and abdomen. He brought her fingers to his lips and kissed them again, slowly, ostensibly to drink the rum off of them, but really to try to taste her skin, all the places he'd made her touch, wishing like hell he could taste them for himself.  
  
He'd been so absorbed in his own thoughts that it took him a moment to notice that she was gasping for breath and her thighs were parting by themselves, her feet sliding apart in the sand. Yes, it was time. She was ready, she was more than ready, she'd been ready since she'd first felt his mouth on her hands before, he was sure. He put her hand back down between her thighs, and set down the rum so that he could lean on his left elbow, next to her. He guided her fingers between the curls - she gave a little jump off the ground at the new sensation - and then he laid two fingers on top of hers, and pushed her hand farther down between the folds to her hot, moist center.  
  
His fingers slipped off of hers for a second, only a second, and he brushed against the heat of her, and he thought he'd die, right then and there, a happy man. But then he found her fingers again, and moved them underneath his hand, and pressed them downward against her sex, and she cried out with a wild upward movement of her hips.  
  
“Jack... I...” she panted desperately.  
  
“Shhh,” he said. “Don't interrupt the story.” And he began to rub, slowly, his fingers over hers, between the soft, wet folds. The heat of her nearly scalded his hand, even though he still only touched her fingers, and their fingers slipped back and forth and between one another as more of her moisture emerged and he lowered his forehead to her shoulder with a groan. He wanted her so much, so badly he didn't know how he'd survive... and he pulled her hand away, then, and brought it up to his mouth, and swallowed two of her fingers, laving them with his tongue, tasting her on them, knowing he would give his right arm to taste her for himself...  
  
He heard her gasp of surprise, and then another soft groan as he continued to suckle her fingers, and when he opened his eyes her head had fallen back into the sand and she was looking at him with total, wanton desire.  
  
“What does the princess taste like?” she said low in her throat.  
  
“Heavenly,” he answered, hearing the word sounding choked, his voice hoarse. And then he returned her hand between her legs and pressed against her sex, hard, and cupped his hand around hers to force her fingers against herself. She groaned aloud again, and he began to move her fingers rhythmically, up and down, back and forth. Her hips rocked in time to his motions, and he realized he felt good, so good, despite fearing that he was about to split his trousers open from the force of his erection. He spread her fingers apart and moved them so that her small nub of flesh slid between them, and then he squeezed them together again, caressing it firmly.   
  
“Jack...” she moaned, deep and low as he'd ever heard her, and he pushed himself up off his elbow to look into her face.  
  
“Yes, love.”  
  
“I think... the princess...doesn't know what's going to happen...it's very strange...”  
  
“Is it?” He continued his ministrations below, pressing harder, moving her fingers back and forth more deliberately. “What does it feel like, to her?”  
  
“It feels...” and her breath came out in a sigh, and her lips remained open for a moment, till she spoke again, still rotating her hips with his touch on her touch on her... “feels... it burns, it's tight and burning...”  
  
“That's good,” he said with a smile, feeling his throat constrict. “That's very good. That's what he wanted to show her.”  
  
“It... is?” she gasped, and once again her mouth stayed open, and he bent his head till his lips were almost against hers, and he wanted to kiss her more than anything in his entire life. “I can't... I can't breathe...” she was saying, a hair's breadth from his lips. “Help me... make it... I want...”  
  
And he tried to aim her fingers more accurately, sweeping them over the sensitive nub he know was the focal point of her pleasure, but she had lost some coordination in her hand - probably the rum, and her near-overwhelming state of arousal - and her fingers felt limp to him.  
  
“Jack, please. _Please_. Please, touch me, yourself.”   
  
He smiled to hear those words, but didn't change what he was doing. “I can't, love. I promised. Just wait a moment...”  
  
“No. No. I can't wait,” she exhaled against his mouth. “I can't... bear it... any more.”  
  
“Well, I can't do anything else, unless you release me from that promise,” he whispered to her, knowing he was tormenting her unnecessarily, but he wouldn't have her crying scoundrel again, after this... “If you release me, from that... I'll release you... from this.”  
  
She seemed to debate as he drove her fingers against her harder, bringing her to a fever pitch, and she was crying out wordlessly right against his mouth. But still she thrashed helplessly, and he held himself above her lips, watching pleasure contort her pretty features, knowing with a sinking feeling that seeing it once would never be enough.  
  
And then he heard her trying to form words again.  
  
“Yes... release... you...” was all he could make out.  
  
But it was enough.   
  
He flung her hand away and in the same moment replaced it with his own. And his mouth descended on hers to kiss her, thoroughly, openly, since her lips were already parted and she was spread wide to him, and he slid his lips over hers and pushed his tongue into her mouth at the same time he pushed his thumb, hard, against her below, and curled two fingers into her hot, dripping slit, feeling her buck and writhe and moan against him in both places, and with several deft, solid movements of his fingers and thumb and mouth and tongue he brought her over the edge, and she screamed into his mouth and he swallowed her scream, kissing her rhythmically, encircling her tongue, claiming her mouth as completely as his hand claimed her body.  
  
And then he waited for her to calm, still kissing her, but slowly, more gently, more for himself now, than for her. He'd been waiting all night for that kiss, and he was determined to take his time now that he had it. When he finally lifted his mouth from hers, her chin fell to the side and she took a few slow, deep breaths, as he felt her heartbeat slow against the fingers of his other hand that had come up to brush her neck.  
  
But while her heartbeat was slowing, his was still pounding, because now that he was no longer focused on what he was doing to her, his own arousal was clamoring in his ears, threatening to take control of him. She was warm, she was wet, she was naked, and she was right underneath him. Half-inebriated, half-drowsy with pleasure. She turned to look at him, after a moment.  
  
“Does the princess... thank him for his gift?” Her voice was still breathy, but closer to normal.  
  
“She ought to, if she liked it.”  
  
“I think she did.”  
  
“I think she did, too.”  
  
To his surprise, she lifted her lips to his again, and kissed him, tenderly, hesitantly. He fought for a moment and then gave into it, kissing her back ardently, but when he felt his control coming dangerous close to breaking, again, he tore his mouth away with a groan.  
  
“What's the matter?”  
  
He chucked ruefully, looking down at the innocence in her recently-satisfied gaze. “After Odysseus gives the princess her gift, he's left in a bit of quandary. Because you see, he wants her more than ever, but he still can't take her, the real way, because he'd ruin her, and she's still too innocent to know it. And he's close, so close, to taking her anyway, because it seems like she's offering herself to him, but he keeps telling himself she doesn't know what that means.”  
  
Elizabeth sighed, still meeting his eyes. “Does he... is he in pain, from wanting her? Like before, when I... when she... when she needed to be released?”  
  
Jack marveled again at her cleverness, and wondered how that might come into play in the future. She was very smart. He'd do to watch his back, in fact, if their interests ever came into conflict. But for now... he wanted her. Desperately. “Yes. Exactly like that.”  
  
“And isn't there any way she can... release him... like he released her?”  
  
Jack's lungs constricted and he felt a shiver move, slowly, from his chest to his loins. “There... there might be, yes.”  
  
“Can he show her?”  
  
He blinked, a long, slow, blink. “It'll require the use of her hands.”  
  
“Well, that sounds safe enough.”  
  
“That's what you thought an hour ago.”  
  
She smiled, and brought her hands up to his face as he held himself over her. “All right.”  
  
He wasted no time in reaching his hands down to untie the scarf and unfasten his breeches, and he spilled gratefully out, brushing against her naked thigh. He got up on his knees and climbed between her legs, sliding his hands up her sides to wrap around her back. Then he brought his mouth to hers, again, and kissed her slowly, greedily. When he broke the kiss, she was moving her hands down his body, all the way down to his sides, and then around to the front, and then down more... until her fingers brushed against him, and she gasped in shock.  
  
At the touch of her fingers to his member, he groaned, and could not form the words to tell her, to explain that it was him, she needn't be afraid, just to keep touching him... but she did anyway, exploring his length with her fingers, from tip to base, and back up again. He reached down to guide her, still in a state of disbelief that it was really happening, that Elizabeth was really touching him, that she wanted to.  
  
He wrapped her fingers around him, and once he had done so, lifted his hips slightly for one, agonizing, delicate stroke.  
  
“I don't know what to...show me, Jack,” she breathed.  
  
“Just do that, love,” he groaned. “Keep doing that.”  
  
And she did, holding onto the same place at the base of his cock while he rocked his hips forward again, and again. But it wasn't enough. He was dying, dying... and even though he'd wanted this exact feeling the entire night, ever since he'd watched her with that bottle, he thought he'd die of frustration before her tender touch could bring him release. And then that gave him an idea.  
  
“Love, pretend it's a bottle, all right? You grasp the neck-“ she did so, squeezing him a little more tightly “-and then you lift it up to drink-“ he broke off as she pulled him upward, causing delicious friction all along his length, and he laughed darkly at his own choice of words, knowing he could only imagine what it would be like if she really _did_ bring him to her lips “-and then you set it back down. And you do that, over and over.” She grasped, she lifted, she stroked downward.  
  
And Jack thought he would explode. Right then.  
  
But he clenched his teeth and told himself to wait, and she did it again, and again, and he thrust helplessly into her hands.  
  
“Yes, oh _yes_ , just like that,” he hissed. “Sure you haven't done this before?”  
  
“No, but I am a quick study.”  
  
“You certainly are.” And he realized they'd left off with the pretense of the story, entirely, even though it was a nice one, it had served its purpose and there was only Elizabeth and Jack, now, and she was pumping him expertly and he was melting into her hands.  
  
Before long he felt a familiar tightening ache beneath his cock, and knew she'd done it, that she'd brought him to orgasm in record time with nothing except those hands, those hands, those beautiful hands of hers... He came with a jerk and a long groan, spilling himself into her hand, onto her stomach, and still she moved her fist upon him for a moment before slowing to a stop. Well, she'd figured out what _that_ meant, too, which was good. Not that she could have missed it.  
  
He raised his head to look down at her, and once again saw that smile of feminine mystique, the one that made him think she was high on her own power, her own ability to seduce. Who had seduced whom, indeed? he thought as he remembered her insistence on the correction to his story.  
  
“Well, they won't be finding _that_ in Homer,” he said, brushing hair out of her face with his hands.  
  
“A pity, in my opinion.”  
  
“Yes. People are so busy looking for the fairy-tale ending, they miss all the delightful stories along the way. Between the lines, as it were.”  
  
She took a deep breath and sighed. “How does a pirate come to know so much about literature?”  
  
He regarded her in the diminishing firelight. “How does a lady come to know about venereal disease?”  
  
She laughed, then, and he grinned as he rolled off of her to flop in the sand.  
  
“I'd recommend a dip in the water, love, or you'll be quite sticky in the morning,” he said with a yawn. He could barely keep his eyes open as he saw her walk, naked, down to the water's edge and in, getting in up to her knees before he closed his eyes. In a moment he sensed her back next to him, and she had bathed her entire body, for her hair was wet, and then put her dress back on. He must have dozed off... he sincerely hoped that, once all the rum _really_ wore off, she wouldn't be too angry at him, or at herself...  
  
“Jack?”  
  
“Hm?”  
  
“How does the story end? Between the princess, and the pirate?”  
  
“You mean, the soldier... sailor?”  
  
“Yes.”  
  
“I don't know, love. That I don't know.” He yawned. His eyelids were heavy, so heavy... he didn't know when he'd last felt so at peace. Even though they were stuck on this island and were probably going to die on it.  
  
“You forgot something, Jack.”  
  
“What's that?”  
  
“The sailor... he looks awful, he's down on his luck, lost all his possessions, shipwrecked and at the mercy of the princess... but you know... underneath of that, he's not a nobody or a vagrant wastrel at all. He's a king... the finest king his people have ever known.”  
  
Jack opened his eyes and looked at her, and she looked back at him. He searched her face one last time, feeling a weight he didn't even know was there suddenly lift from his chest, before his eyes closed and he went blissfully to sleep.  
  
  



End file.
